


it's only a matter of time

by wordsmith_extraordinaire



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Angst and Romance, Childhood Trauma, Depression, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:34:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23334715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsmith_extraordinaire/pseuds/wordsmith_extraordinaire
Summary: Legolas knows that he's most likely been a fool. It seems that whenever he falls in love, it's always the mortals. He knows it's draining him, he knows,deep down, that it will kill him one day.But would that really be so bad?Or: Legolas realizes how much of a curse immortality really is.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Aragorn | Estel/Legolas Greenleaf, Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 15
Kudos: 130





	it's only a matter of time

**Author's Note:**

> this is quite possibly the longest one shot i've ever written.
> 
> it's surprisingly angsty, even for me, but i hope you enjoy.

“Naneth, how old are you?” asks the owner of the wide blue eyes that glimmer with the innocent curiosity of a child.

“I do not know for certain, ion nîn. Many thousands of years old.”

Legolas grins in admiration of his mother, who in this moment seems as old as the heavens themselves. “Will I live forever, too?”

“Sit sill, Legolas,” she chides, turning his head forward to resume brushing and braiding his tangled golden locks. “Yes, you will. All elves are immortal.”

There is a moment of silent contemplation. “I will live to be a million years old!” Legolas finally declares, throwing his arms out wide to illustrate the vastness of such a number.

His mother ties a green ribbon on the end of the braid and gathers the squirming, giggling bundle of an elfling into her arms, kissing him on the forehead over and over.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Naneth!” Legolas chirps, wrapping his small arms around her waist.

~~~

Thranduil, slumped in his throne, head in his hands, looks up when he hears gentle footsteps echoing throughout the throne room. Legolas, looking very small and very scared with fidgety hands, stands a few feet away.

“Ada? What happened?”

Thranduil gives no answer, but his mind is racing. How can he ever tell the boy that his mother is dead? That the mother he loved so dearly would never kiss him again?

“Where’s Naneth?”

Thranduil’s silence alone is more than enough to tell Legolas that he will never see his mother again.

“She’s not dead,” he states simply, voice hollow with shock, backing away from the throne.

Thranduil does not answer, cannot answer; all the words he had been preparing to say are lodged in his throat, tangled in a thick web of grief.

Legolas’ head is spinning. Had his mother lied to him? Elves are supposed to live forever, to walk the earth and all its glory for eternity, but she’d never told him that such a beautiful promise of life could be cut short. Or maybe it had never occurred to him. And as he turns his back on his father, walks briskly back to his chambers, head down, face grim, Legolas is empty. 

~~~

The first time he goes to Rivendell, Legolas is nervous, to say the least. His father had negotiated with Lord Elrond on many separate occasions, establishing peaceful relations between their kingdoms and whatnot, but to meet Elrond officially, face to face?

The elf lord is surprisingly pleasant. His smile is warm and cordial, and Legolas finds himself feeling more at home than he’s felt in years. The twin sons, Elladan and Elrohir, politely introduce themselves, but their identical expressions of impassiveness prove to be only masks, for the sake of formality. When the three of them become more acquainted, their mischievous natures of Elrond’s sons will become _much_ more apparent. Their younger sister, Arwen, is a charming maiden, but what really interests Legolas about the family is Estel.

Estel, the human boy.

He is lively, impish like his brothers, but considerate, too, and thoughtful. By his third visit to the Last Homely House, they are fast friends, but Legolas is beginning to worry that he’s becoming too attached. Estel is mortal, and as much as Legolas tries not to let that be the defining statement for whether or not he engages in a friendship with someone, it’s a deep concern of his. 

But oh, how he loves this small boy who seems to grow faster and stronger every day.

And in no time at all, he is a young man of nineteen years, and _dashingly_ handsome.

“Can’t sleep?”

Legolas turns from his perch on the balcony that overlooks the waterfall. Estel smirks, a soft gesture completely unlike his energetic grins of daytime. This smile is tender, and its gentle curve pierces Legolas’ heart with a heat unlike any he’s ever felt before.

“Not really,” he answers meekly, trying and failing to will his face to stop burning up like a furnace.

Estel looks as though he’s about to say something, but the words fall flat before they even begin. Instead, he raises one hand and brings it slowly to the tip of Legolas’ pointed ear, and, without meaning to, the elf whimpers.

Their lips do not crash together in some wild explosion of passionate desire; rather, the space between them is gradually crossed until they are a mere hairsbreadth apart. Estel’s lips are rough against his, but delicate, and carry an aftertaste of salt; despite his few years, he seems well practiced at this sort of thing, and Legolas finds himself following the lead of the boy he knows at this moment he would give his whole heart to without a second thought.

~~~

The following year, Estel’s world comes crashing down. Legolas tries to hold it up with all his might, but it is not enough.

“Estel, please-”

“ _Don’t,_ ” he snaps in reply, the timbre of his voice brittle and sharp, threatening to break under a suppressed torrent of emotion. Inhaling deeply, he begins again. “My name is Aragorn.” He does a decent job of being convincing, but Legolas knows him better. He is unsure, finding himself at a metaphorical crossroad of identities.

“Who do you want to be?” Legolas asks, stepping closer. 

Estel (Aragorn? The name sounds strange on his tongue.) steps backwards, shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to become Aragorn,” Legolas says, hoping that Estel will follow his advice. “I will love you no matter who you decide to be.”

There is no response, at first. Legolas gives it time, although the hesitation worries him. What if Estel decides to accept this new destiny that’s been offered to him? Despite being many years Estel’s senior and therefore responsible for the boy’s wellbeing, Legolas desperately needs him, relies on him. Estel is the one who looks at the faint scratches on his forearms, put there by his own nails, and kisses them, one by one. Estel is the one who lies with him at night when sleep evades him and sings to the stars. They _need_ each other.

~~~

What happens next is a blur that Legolas tries to forget.

There are flashes of a different man, (not a boy, a _man_ ), one who calls himself Aragorn. Flashes of his hand clasping the hand of a woman he used to call his sister. A polite smile, too many polite smiles, all of them bandages covering up the scars of their lost love.

Legolas relapses into the old habit of drawing his own blood with any sharp edge on hand, shrinks into himself, tries to convince himself that it’s better this way, better not to watch his lover grow old and die before his eyes. Legolas shoves the past into a dark corner and _tries to forget._

He fails. The memories remain, as does Aragorn (Estel): a ghost of what used to be.

~~~

The letter from his father in reaction to the possibly insane decision to go on a quest to destroy the One Ring of the Dark Lord himself is, understandably, frantic. The scrawled hand in which it is written betrays a desperate devotion that he’s only seen from his father in the early days of his childhood.

Legolas’ response is calm, collected, reassuring. It’s easier to convey thoughts and feelings when you can’t see the person’s face.

He is not frightened; in fact, he would be excited had not Aragorn volunteered himself as well. But, fortunately, there are other companions with which he can make his acquaintance.

The dwarf catches his eye almost immediately. Gimli is his name, and although Legolas holds on to the unsavory first impressions for a long while, he comes to realize that Gimli doesn’t annoy him as much as he lets on. In fact, he’s beginning to enjoy their little spats, which have become more like playful banter and less like a real argument. While on watch one night, Legolas has to pinch himself to draw his eyes away from the dwarf’s sleeping face, framed by a rich, curly mane of red hair and absolutely _mesmerizing._

However, if there’s one thing Legolas is good at, it’s masking his feelings, and although there are many occasions on which his heart is fairly flying out of his chest with lovestruck panic, he has managed to maintain a cool, indifferent exterior. Until Moria.

Elves were never meant to go underground, and Legolas’ nerves are already shot from a restless sleep the night before, so their first day in the mines is nothing short of torture. The darkness seems to be closing in on him, ever so slowly, drawing the breath out of him little by little. His haze of vague anxiety is broken suddenly by Aragorn’s voice.

“You look unwell, mellon nîn.” The tone is concerned, but soft, just as if hearts had never been broken long ago. He jerks away and sits down heavily on a boulder at the side of the path. It is true, he feels light-headed, and maybe he _had_ been swaying a little on his feet. A rest might do him good.

“Doin’ alright, there, laddie?”

A rest _away from people._

“I’m in perfect health, thank you,” he replies, hoping that his voice doesn’t sound as shaky as it feels.

Gimli sits beside him and tries again, in an effort to be helpful. “The mines can be pretty frightening, I guess, if you’re not a dwarf.” He sounds sympathetic, almost caring, and Legolas _hates_ it.

“I am not _frightened_ , dwarf,” he snaps, rising a little too quickly and nearly loses his balance.

He can feel Gimli’s eyes on him as he walks away.

~~~

When they emerge from the murky gloom of the caves, Legolas feels the tightness in his chest immediately release, but that relief is swiftly followed by a pang of guilt. Is it right to feel so lighthearted under the light of the sun, so soon after they lost Gandalf?

The party takes a moment to rest. Legolas stands upon one of the higher rocky outcroppings and surveys the surroundings, a crisp wind blowing wisps of hair away from his face.

Gimli is suddenly beside him, leaning on his axe and following his gaze into the distance. “Nice view,” he says. 

Legolas has a sudden, unexpected change of heart, and he turns to Gimli and smiles. A real smile, from the heart, and when Gimli returns it with a grin just as warm, he feels as though he could fly.

~~~

That night, they share their first kiss.

Gimli is nothing like Aragorn (Estel), and for that Legolas is eternally grateful. He is rough, passionate, fierce, and Legolas can almost taste the fire on his lips.

He has never felt so alive in his life.

~~~

“What’s this?”

Legolas is in the process of finding his tunic when Gimli grabs ahold of his left forearm.

“Nothing.”

Gimli’s eyes widen as he realizes that the scars are not, in fact, nothing. “Why have you been doing this?” he asks.

Words jumble together and tangle in his throat, and before he can will the tears away, they are streaming down his face at an alarming rate and his heart is hammering and he _can’t breathe_ …

“Shhh.” Gimli’s hands are cupping his face, his lips are planting thousands of tiny kisses on his skin.

They lie there for a while as his breath evens, Legolas’ head in Gimli’s lap, Gimli stroking the waterfall of Legolas’ blonde hair.

He is safe again.

~~~

The Ring is destroyed. Their lives can go back to normal, to some degree.

Legolas musters enough strength to confront Aragorn with a formal civility and no more than that. He’s just been crowned king; he at least deserves an acknowledgement.

But now, the question is: where will he and Gimli live? They are much more than happenstance lovers, now; they are partners for life, and they have vowed to stay with each other forever. ( _Until death do us part. But don’t worry about that. Not yet._ )

Living underground would certainly never do; it would risk a daily panic attack on Legolas’ part. Mirkwood wouldn’t work either.

So they settle down in a small cottage in the northern reaches of Ithilien, and they are happy.

~~~

Years pass. Gimli’s red hair loses its luster, greys with time, and Legolas ignores the ache in his heart.

When they receive news that Aragorn has died, Legolas does something he has not done in a long time, and wakes up dizzy and sick and face-down in the grass with a bloodstained arm.

“I’m sorry,” Legolas says lamely, later, when his cut is bandaged.

Gimli says nothing, but his face tells Legolas that he understands, in spite of the fright that it must have given him, seeing his love nearly bleeding to death on the ground.

Legolas tries to sit up and kiss him, but is forced back down by the incessant pitching of the room, up and down, back and forth.

Gimli lies with him, holds him gently.

~~~

When they arrive in Valinor, Legolas feels sick despite seeing so many familiar, friendly faces. He can’t even properly greet his own father. He knows what’s coming.

Gimli is so old, so weary from the world. His hair is white now, his strength gone. Immortality truly is a curse.

What’s worse is that Gimli’s accepted his imminent death. He seems to see it as just a passing-on to the next stage, or something. 

Maybe Legolas is just selfish. Maybe he was stupid for becoming so attached.

It’s too late to change anything.

~~~

It was tender and sweet, as deaths go. Legolas did not cry, which is strange and maybe wrong. He feels hollow and fragile.

He takes a walk to the sea, down to the beach. His reflection in the water is aged in spite of his endless youth. There are new lines under his eyes, a drawn paleness to his face.

He’d always wondered why the other elves he knew never had mortal friends. That was his mistake.

Without removing his clothes, Legolas steps into the water, wades deep and far, then floats on his back to face the sky. They’re all up there, waiting.

The clouds move quickly with the warm wind that blows on his face, and a single tear drops into the water.

Legolas closes his eyes and lets himself drift. Somewhere in this haze, he slips into the deep blue of the water, lets it wash over him, seep into him.

Through the darkness behind his eyelids, there is a pinprick of light.

**Author's Note:**

> i almost cried, writing the end of this.
> 
> kudos and/or comments are much appreciated!


End file.
